


I hope our world is a kaleidoscope

by cassieoh_draws (cassieoh), doorwaytoparadise, MovesLikeBucky



Series: Ritz to the Rubble [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, But Aziraphale loves him, Community: Do It With Style Events, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Edging, Established Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Soft Dom Aziraphale, contains NSFW art, crowley is bad at words, like he's barely one but it's there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25490302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieoh/pseuds/cassieoh_draws, https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MovesLikeBucky/pseuds/MovesLikeBucky
Summary: Crowley doesn’t know why it’s still difficult now, after months, to tell Aziraphale just how far the depths of his love go.  The stretches of time blemished with wanting and yearning are lost on his tongue, sit like rocks in his throat.Crowleyalsodoesn’t know how he ended up on Aziraphale’s bed, stroking himself off wearing the angel’s shirt and bowtie.  He definitely didn’t intend for Aziraphale to catch him in the act.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ritz to the Rubble [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619113
Comments: 70
Kudos: 300
Collections: Aziraphale/Crowley Smut Library, Good Omens Mini Bang, Top Aziraphale Recs





	I hope our world is a kaleidoscope

**Author's Note:**

> Notes from Bucky: Hello everyone! This is my entry for the Do It With Style Events Mini Bang, which I have had the absolute honor of helping organize and run. I have made so many amazing friends in this server and I can't wait til the next one! This fic features beautiful art from [doorwaytoparadise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise) and [cassieoh](https://cassieoh.carrd.co), both of whom inspired so much of this fic with said art that really at _least_ 6k of this can be directly tied to the Fandom Inspiration Feedback Loop in our group chat xD I love them both very dearly, please go check them out! 
> 
> There is also an amazing [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0Q0GQur1HBlif8wez7ynXA?si=zU1V4fdzRPCEEeWMF1xErg) that doorwaytoparadise made to go with this fic and the very first track is the song the title is from - Color by Todrick Hall and Jay Armstrong Johnson
> 
> Note from cassieoh: **yall** i cannot get over both how lucky I was to get to work with these awesome people and how much fun it was. Bucky's totally right about that feedback loop haha. Do yourself a favor and subscribe to them both, you wont be sorry (I know I'm not haha)
> 
> Note from doorwaytoparadise: it was an honor and a delight to be a part of this work, and I certainly love that feedback loop lol. it's always amazing when you can work with people that push you further in your own work, so go follow my very talented co-conspirators! and also you can find me on tumblr as [sungmee](https://sungmee.tumblr.com), where i post more of my art <3

_When our hearts collide_

_I hope our world is a kaleidoscope_

_'Cause black and white_

_Never shines so bright_

* * *

Crowley gasps as his back hits the ridiculously soft duvet cover on Aziraphale’s bed. The tartan tie around his neck feels like a brand on his skin; the blue cotton that smells of book dust feels softer than it needs to be. His cock is in his hand, slicked with a bit of demonic miracle, achingly hard and standing at attention as he strokes himself on Aziraphale’s bed.

Once again, the best-laid plans of mice and Crowley. Something about curiosity? Cats? He doesn’t even know anymore, can’t think of stupid things like _language_ right now. He strokes himself slow, circling his thumb at the tip of his cock, arching his back off the mattress. 

Fucking mistake this was. He’d only wanted to surprise Aziraphale, take him out for a nice lunch. But no, the angel hadn’t been home. Out meeting with a book dealer of some kind. He’d left a note, as if he’d been expecting Crowley to come by.

Not that it was surprising these days. Crowley spent more time at the bookshop than he ever did at his own flat. It was only a matter of time before Aziraphale would start expecting him to be around. What a thought that was.

The note had said to make himself comfortable, which had led him to heading for the first floor flat. This led him to snooping - since Aziraphale wasn’t here to distract him with kisses and cuddles and the other myriad of distracting-adorable-angel-things he was prone to doing. This led him to the bedroom, which somehow through a completely logical turn of events led to him lying here in Aziraphale’s bed wearing his angel’s bow tie and shirt with his prick in his hand. 

He increases the pressure and slows his strokes. His breath hitches, caught in his throat. Crowley can’t remember the last time he’s wanted a wank this badly. (Though he thinks it might have been the 18th century, when those blessed stockings were still in fashion; Aziraphale had always had lovely calves, it had been very unfair of him to show them off all the time.) The friction on his cock isn’t enough, he needs more. More _something_ , heaven if he knows what the fuck it is.

He circles the head with his thumb again, dragging his hand down his length slowly as he moans out loud. A split-second impulse and Crowley has his own fingers in his mouth, practically gagging on them as he picks up the pace on his cock. It’s still not enough, never ever enough, _fuck_ , he’s in love with Aziraphale. That’s what he really wants right now, to be riding Aziraphale’s cock as the angel calls him “good” and “nice” and when the fuck did that become his fantasy?

Crowley groans as he takes his fingers out of his mouth and flips over onto his knees, splayed out with his shoulders pressed into the mattress. He circles one slick finger at his own entrance and pushes in; pretending for all the world that it’s Aziraphale. 

_You open up so beautifully for me dearest,_ he can hear Aziraphale say in his mind, _so good for me, aren’t you, darling?_

“Yes, Go-Satan- _Fuck,_ Aziraphale, only for you, only ever for you,” Crowley pants out to nothing, “it’s always ever been you. Nobody else, never, _fuck_ , angel I’ve wanted you so long.” 

He’s never been good with words. Still isn’t, after everything they’ve been through. But now the words fall from his lips almost unbidden, the imagined image of his angel looming over him and splitting him apart almost vivid enough to be real.

He wants to say these things to Aziraphale, tell him all the words he deserves to hear. Praise him and worship him like the holy thing that he is. Even in the mundane. Like when Aziraphale is reading with Crowley’s head in his lap, carding fingers gently through his hair. Or when Aziraphale talks some poor waiter’s ear off about the lovely day they’ve had out together. Or even when he talks in a singsong voice to the ducks at the park as he tosses them frozen peas. A litany of _I love you, I adore you, I will cherish you forever and until the sun burns out_ sits stilled behind Crowley's teeth. An echoed repeat through his ribs of _let me kneel at the altar of you and sing praise in your pews, let me be your most devout and ardent follower, let me worship you for the rest of my fucking days._ He tries to will them out, put them into existence, scream them at the top of his lungs. But they don't come out, just stay put on the back of his forked tongue.

They threaten to spill out every time they’re intimate together. When Aziraphale looks at him, eyes dark with want and desire as Crowley comes apart under his hands. When Aziraphale spills his own praise, for Crowley’s heart, for his mind and for his body. He wants to scream from the mountains, give back in kind. Breathe the words into Aziraphale’s mouth or press them into his skin like the angel deserves.

_Just a little more for me, darling? So very, very good for me._

“Whatever you’ll give me, Aziraphale, I’ll take it. I’ll cherish it, I’ll brand it on my memory forever, anything and everything.” Crowley moans as he brings a second finger to join the first; his strokes becoming faster and more erratic. “I love you, Aziraphale, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He’s hyper-aware of the pressure around his neck; the bowtie is just a bit too snug (not much experience with bowties, him) and it’s like an anchor weighing his entire being down to this world, to the thought of Aziraphale. To the thought of Aziraphale taking him apart piece by piece; with his mouth, his hands, his tongue, and his cock. He sinks his teeth into the covers, needing somewhere for his mouth to go.

 _Crowley,_ he hears in that breathy gasp that he’s grown used to. The breathy, low voice that Aziraphale slips into as he chases his pleasure. _You’re so lovely, so good to me, you take my cock so well, don’t you, my darling?_

“Give me all of it, Aziraphale, I want all of it,” Crowley growls through gritted teeth as he adds a third finger, thrusting in and out of himself, rubbing against just the right spot, building up his release. The strokes on his cock become jerkier, haphazard, he’s close. So maddeningly close, just a little bit more and-

He hears someone clear their throat from the bedroom doorway.

* * *

_A few minutes earlier..._

Aziraphale turns the corner coming back to the shop and is pleased to see a very familiar car in it’s usual (illegal) parking spot in front of the bookshop. Truth be told, Crowley is there so often these days that he’s rarely ever out of pocket. But Aziraphale still misses him terribly when he’s gone. It’s strange, millennia of stolen moments compared to now. He’d worried they might get sick of each other, but that hasn’t shown to be the case. If anything, he just wants Crowley around him more. 

The nights when Crowley stands from the sofa, sobers up, and mutters about needing to keep the plants in line are Aziraphale’s least favorite. He likes when Crowley stays the night. Likes when they stay up all night drinking, when they make love, even the nights when they just fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms. Those are his favorite. He likes waking up with Crowley; makes the whole sleeping thing seem worth it.

He unlocks the door, making sure the sign stays flipped to closed. If Crowley is here, there’s no reason to open up shop. Crowley’s coat is hanging on the rack by the door and something about that makes Aziraphale’s heart flutter. He continues through the shop, finds a scarf tossed over a chair, snakeskin boots kicked off by the stairs.

Crowley taking up space in his space, making himself at home. 

It’s been happening, albeit gradually. There’s a couple of potted plants in the windows (“Unruly, these, won’t grow properly in the flat at all. I think it’s the _flowers_ , gah.”), some Velvet Underground records mixed in with the Schubert and Bach (“Honestly, angel, it’s not ‘bebop’ you’d like it if you gave it a shot.”1), and a curious new section near the back with books on astronomy (“You probably had a sciences section already, angel, just never bothered to notice. How do you even keep track of all these without a proper system anyway?”). Someday soon, Aziraphale thinks, he’ll ask Crowley to just stay here properly. Plenty of room, and two can get by just as well as one.

Aziraphale takes off his coat and loosens his bowtie; less keen on staying buttoned up in all his old Victorian garb. His layers were always his last line of defense against the want that ran so deep within him. His armor, even if in metaphor only. But he doesn’t need that armor anymore. 

“Crowley? Are you upstairs?” He calls out to the shop. Getting no response, he starts up the spiral iron stairs. As he turns the handle on the door that separates bookshop from flat, he hears a voice call out.

“Yes, Go-Satan- _Fuck_ , Aziraphale, only for you, only ever for you…”

 _Peculiar_ , Aziraphale thinks to himself as he follows the sound of Crowley’s voice. Maybe he opted for a nap and he’s having a dream right now. If he is dreaming, it sounds rather pleasant. Aziraphale might just have to join him in it.

“…it’s always ever been you. Nobody else, never, _fuck_ , angel I’ve wanted you so long.”

The door to the bedroom isn’t latched, and Crowley’s black henley is hanging on the doorknob. He pushes it open slowly, taking notice of the black leather trousers on the floor in the hallway. He steps in, quietly, eyes trained to the ground.

“Whatever you’ll give me, Aziraphale, I’ll take it. I’ll cherish it, I’ll brand it on my memory forever, anything and everything…”

Aziraphale can hardly believe what he’s seeing. Crowley is spread out on his bed, prick in his hand, two fingers deep, having what looks to be the time of his life. But more interesting than that, he’s wearing Aziraphale’s shirt and bowtie.

“…I love you, Aziraphale, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He’s struck speechless, stuck in the doorway. Afraid to break the moment — to break the spell. The sight of Crowley taking his pleasure while wearing his things stirs something inside of him.

He ought to be furious, if for no other reason than Crowley couldn’t wait for him. But he can’t seem to bring himself to be, listening to Crowley gasp and moan, watching him wring his own pleasure out of his body, desperate and messy.

“Give me all of it, Aziraphale, I want all of it.”

Aziraphale feels his cock twitch as he watches Crowley bring a third finger to join the other two, movements erratic and fast. He’s close, Aziraphale can tell. They’ve been intimate enough times now, he knows the signs. Knows the hitch in Crowley’s breath, the twitch in his hips.

That won’t do right now, he has ideas.

He clears his throat and Crowley stops moving.

* * *

Crowley stops. Feels the flush rising in his chest, in his face, on the tips of his ears. He stays silent, thinking maybe — just maybe — he had been hearing things.

“I see you took my note quite literally, dear.” 

_Nope, no such luck._ Crowley stays stock still; listens to the click of Aziraphale’s brogues as he crosses the hardwood. Feels the mattress dip as the angel sits down next to him.

“Dare I ask _why_ you’re in my bed, wearing my things…” Aziraphale pauses as he searches for the words, “…like this?”

Crowley mumbles to himself, face still pressed into the mattress as it is. He’s afraid to look up, afraid to see judgment or anger or whatever else might be painting Aziraphale’s features. They’ve been together for months now, but this is still a breach of trust. And Crowley really isn’t sure how he got here in the first place.

A soft and sturdy hand touches his cheek and he relaxes immediately into the touch. It never takes much, a simple touch or a kiss. Aziraphale has a way of calming Crowley’s anxieties that is effortless and simple. It feels a lot like coming home, in a way. Like taking off your shoes at the end of a long day. Like the first sip of a hot cup of tea, made exactly the way one expects it to be. Like sinking beneath the sheets with no plans on a specific time to wake up.

“Crowley, darling,” Aziraphale coos at him as he strokes his cheek. His heart stutters a bit. It does every time, from the first to now. Every endearment throws him for a loop. Every bit of love levered in his direction. It’s embarrassingly sappy for a demon, even if he’s not much of one these days. But more than that, there’s guilt.

Aziraphale tells him — shows him — in so many ways just how loved he is. He can’t sense it, not since the fall, but he doesn’t need to with Aziraphale. He wants to be better for him, wants to be good for him.

“Crowley, would you look at me, please?” Aziraphale’s hand worms its way under his chin, gently lifting his head up. “There you are, dear.” 

Crowley racks his brain, rattles it around trying to make something, _anything_ that makes the slightest bit of sense come out.

“Hi angel, fancy meeting you here.”

_Nope, that wasn’t it._

Aziraphale just smiles at him. He kisses his forehead, his cheek, and finally his lips, a soft and gentle kiss full of fondness. “Fancy meeting me in my own bedroom?”

“Well…um… I was… and then… I saw the note and… dunno what happened after that.” He stammers out, no explanation to be had.

“Darling, it’s fine,” Aziraphale says as he strokes a thumb along Crowley’s cheek, “I don’t mind.”

Crowley feels his eyes go wide. In all of the varying universes in all the varying timelines that are possible in the great span of life that is the entire universe did he expect Aziraphale to be ok with this. He’s so particular about his belongings; always meticulous even when there’s a certain urgency about things. 

“Those were some very lovely words you were saying, dearheart,” Aziraphale says, still gently running his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “I’m very glad I was able to hear some of them.”

“Ah…how much, um, did you hear?” Crowley extracts his fingers, at the very least. Something unreadable flashes across Aziraphale’s face as Crowley sits up next to him on the bed, cock softening after being caught.

“Quite a bit of it… I think…” Aziraphale’s eyes dart over Crowley’s face as he swallows heavily. He reaches out and runs a hand over Crowley’s thigh, a thoughtful look on his face.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley can only watch in awe as Aziraphale kneels in front of him, both hands on his thighs. Soft and fluttering touches that are just this side of too light, building up his arousal again. 

Aziraphale looks up at him, eyebrow raised. “Is this too much, darling?”

“N…no,” Crowley stammers out, fisting his hands into the sheets. The sleeves of the shirt catch in his fingers, get balled up with the rest. The pressure of the tie grounds him into the moment.

“Well then, go ahead.”

Crowley blinks, confused, “go ahead?”

“I want to watch,” Aziraphale says just as easily as he might say ‘I want to try the almond butter tarts’ or something equally ridiculous. “I want to see the show I very nearly missed.”

Aziraphale has that bastard twinkle in his eye, and Crowley is powerless against it. He takes himself back in hand, stroking slowly, building his erection back up fully. Aziraphale kneels on the floor and watches, pressing occasional kisses to Crowley’s thighs, and sighing contentedly. 

It feels voyeuristic, but not in a bad way. Not when it’s Aziraphale watching him chase his own pleasure; not when Aziraphale’s hands are on him. He can feel Aziraphale’s breath against his skin where his head rests, warm and wet. Proof of him being here, of him wanting to see this. Crowley shuts his eyes, lets the sensations wash over him — the feel of Aziraphale’s breath; of his hands, his lips, his eyes, his—

“Well?” Aziraphale interrupts this train of thought with an odd air of impatience.

“Well…well what, angel?” Crowley hisses as he cracks one eye open, bucking his hips upwards into his own fist.

“You were saying such lovely things,” Aziraphale says as he leans his head against Crowley’s knee, “I’d love to hear them.”

_Well fuck._

“C… can’t…” Crowley says as he shakes his head. They’re there, the words, caught in the back of his throat. He’s choking on them but they won’t come out. _I love you, I need you, I’ve been gravitating to you since Eden, I’ve loved you since Rome, I slept for a century because I couldn’t imagine a world where I wasn’t welcome where you were._ He can think them as loudly as he wants, but he can’t say them.

Aziraphale furrows his brow in confusion, searing a few more kisses to Crowley’s skin for good measure. “Why not?”

“D…dunno…you’re here, and I can’t.” He’s breathing heavily at this point, the ghost of the climax he almost reached approaching much too fast, threatening to bring him over the edge. He screws his eyes shut, not wanting to see disappointment on Aziraphale’s face. 

Aziraphale’s hand covers his own, warm and soft, stopping his strokes. “Darling, look at me.”

“Nope,” Crowley says all too quickly. A soft hand cups his cheek, thumb stroking small circles. He leans into it like a cat and if _that_ isn’t a bad look for a demon.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says his name in a voice that doesn’t _ask_ to be listened to, but demands it. It’s easy to forget, with his silly bowtie and outdated style and soft ways, Aziraphale was a guardian, wielding a flaming sword to carry out Heaven’s Will. It doesn’t come out often, but that strength simmers there under the surface. Crowley loves it just as much as he loves the softness, there’s nothing Aziraphale could ever be that wouldn’t be something Crowley loves.

He opens his eyes, sees Aziraphale staring back at him with unrestrained love and affection. Never a condition to be had, Aziraphale just loves him.

“That’s better.” Aziraphale leans up on his knees to press a soft and gentle kiss to Crowley’s lips. The simpleness and softness of it threatens to rip Crowley’s heart out of his ribs like a wild animal. He wonders if he’ll burst from it eventually. Be so full of love and affection that his corporation just gives out.

“M’sorry,” Crowley says against Aziraphale’s lips. “I just… I can’t…”

* * *

“Ah, I _think_ I understand,” Aziraphale says as he climbs back onto the bed. He takes one of Crowley’s hands in his, brushes a stray hair off the demon’s face with the other. “I admit, I was a bit curious why you’re always so silent.”

“Shouldn’t be,” Crowley says, gripping his hand like a lifeline. Like he’ll drown if he gets set adrift. “Should be able to tell you what you need to hear. Shouldn’t still be terrified.”

“My darling, you show me. In so many beautiful ways.” Aziraphale cups Crowley’s face, tracing along a sharp cheekbone lightly with his thumb, “I can _feel_ it, Crowley, I don’t _need_ to hear it.”

Crowley leans in, wraps his arms around him. He always kisses Aziraphale like he needs him to _breathe_. Like it’s an essential function of his being. Heartbeat, oxygen, and Aziraphale. Aziraphale runs his other hand under the soft cotton of his own shirt where it hangs at Crowley’s sides, letting his fingers drift over the demon’s spine, pulling him closer.

“But, perhaps…” Aziraphale says when they break, trailing off with intent. Crowley’s eyes are still closed, still in the moment. Aziraphale knows why he does this, knows he needs those few moments. Needs to gather himself back together.

“Perhaps?” Crowley asks, taking the nudge, as he always does. “Got some ideas for me, angel?”

“Might do,” Aziraphale says, letting the hand on Crowley’s cheek wander further around his skull, along his hairline where his bright copper hair is pulled back. “What if you got something out of telling me?” He leans in, trails kisses along the edge of the bowtie as he lazily coils a stray lock of hair around his finger.

“Oh? Tha… that might work — Ah!” Crowley’s breath hitches as Aziraphale runs his tongue up the long line of his neck, stopping when he finds Crowley’s pulse point. He plants a kiss there; one to be carried on Crowley’s bloodstream, directly to the heart of him.

“Crowley, dear,” he whispers against the demon’s skin, a low growl to his voice. A demanding tone that he knows drives Crowley crazy. “I’m going to touch you, I’m going to watch you, and I’m going to give you everything and anything you want. But, I’m going to hear all those lovely words fall from your mouth until I’ve had my fill of them. Then, and only then, you can come. How does that sound?”

The effect is instant. Aziraphale feels the flutter of Crowley’s pulse under his lips. Feels the muscles of his neck move as he swallows hard. He waits for an answer, this goes no further if Crowley doesn’t want it to. But he knows his demon, knows when he needs to be taken care of. Knows how bad Crowley is at asking for what he wants.

“Could…Could do that…if you want.”

Aziraphale leans back as his fingers find the pin holding Crowley’s hair in place. “It’s not about what I want, darling, do _you_ want that? We won’t do it unless you want to.”

Crowley’s eyes lock with his, searching for love and finding an unending tidal wave of it. “Yes, Aziraphale. Yes.”

“You’re always so _good_ for me darling,” he breathes into their shared airspace, relishing the flush that rises in Crowley’s cheeks at the praise. The dusting of red that paints his high cheekbones, that creeps to the tips of his ears. Red as the apple that made him the original tempter, crimson as the roses in the garden at the Dowlings. The pink blush of one who is loved, who is seen, and who finds happiness under that gaze and under that emotion. Aziraphale leans in and kisses him as he pulls the pin, letting Crowley’s hair fall.

“M’not,” Crowley says as his head falls to Aziraphale’s shoulder, nuzzling against the angel’s neck. Aziraphale runs his hands up Crowley’s chest up to his shoulders, skimming under the soft cotton of his own shirt. Crowley is all right angles and spindles, tight sinew and lankiness. The shirt is almost comically large on him, the sleeves a bit too long. But seeing Crowley here, open and vulnerable in one of Aziraphale’s many layers of armor that he used to use to keep out the world, to keep out this love and want. It draws him in, makes his heart ache. 

He kisses Crowley again, on his forehead and then both cheeks, before wrapping his arms around him and pulling him close. Aziraphale strokes a gentle hand up and down Crowley’s spine. Crowley melts into him, the tension in his shoulders breaking.

“Crowley you are everything to me, and always exceedingly good, even if you don’t believe it.” Aziraphale kisses Crowley again, just because no one in their right mind would tell him not to.

* * *

Crowley melts into the kiss, like he always does. Aziraphale lets him go, fingers lingering as he does. The touch always stays a bit longer after the contact is gone, like a firebrand on his skin.

He watches with bated breath as Aziraphale rolls up his sleeves. It’s erotic, in its own way, despite them having seen each other naked so often. Something about seeing Aziraphale like this, undone and unbuttoned, so different from the way he shows himself to the world, it lights something dark and wanting in Crowley’s soul. Sometimes a glimpse of a wrist is enough to make Crowley crowd him against a wall. Aziraphale, for all he’s professed to be holy, is very much temptation incarnate where Crowley is concerned. 

Aziraphale smooths out the crumpled fabric at his elbow, making sure it’s in place and will stay there. Crowley’s cock twitches in response. He wants to grab him by the hand, pull him down and run his lips and tongue over that pale skin, let the dusting of platinum hair tickle his nose. Wants to press his love and adoration into the strong muscle there.

Crowley breathes in deeply, tries to stop his racing heart. He wonders if it’s always going to be like this, this feeling of his heart trying to break out of his ribcage. Trying to throw itself bleeding on the floor at Aziraphale’s feet. It’s been his for so long, Crowley isn’t surprised it’s sick of the black and rotten home it’s known.

He’s pliant in Aziraphale’s arms as the angel maneuvers his head into his lap, a soft touch stroking through his hair while he rests his head on Aziraphale’s thigh. He sighs contentedly.

“Are you comfortable, dear?” Aziraphale smiles down at him. There’s a fondness there, in the creases of his brow, in the laugh lines near his lips. Their corporations are well worn, changing with the times. Crowley’s always changing more than Aziraphale’s; always moving fast, on the pulse of the latest trends. Aziraphale is comfortable, always has been. With his outdated clothes and his antique books. With his pewter reading glasses that he doesn’t need, the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes. He’s soft, is the thing, and Crowley loves him. 

Crowley has been getting a bit soft in his old age, too.

“Mhmm,” Crowley purrs as he settles his head there, pillowed on his soft angel’s soft thighs. Aziraphale taps his shoulder and motions for him to turn onto his side, so he does. 

“Go on then, dear,” Aziraphale says as he carefully starts carding a hand through Crowley’s hair, “I’d very much like to see you touch yourself like this.”

With just a bit of trepidation, Crowley wraps his hand around himself again. Slow strokes in time with the soft fingers that scratch at his scalp. Aziraphale always approaches these moments of intimacy like they are fragile; like ancient scrolls with the ink wearing out. Like a misplaced touch could turn them to dust. 

“Very good, that’s wonderful, Crowley, thank you.” Aziraphale says as though Crowley is the one doing _him_ a favor. He runs a finger along the edge of the bowtie before dragging it back through Crowley’s hair. “You’re so gorgeous, Crowley.”

His hips buck as he nuzzles into Aziraphale’s soft thigh; his arousal returning for the third time, making itself known as he works his erection to standing. Aziraphale twirls a bit of his hair around his finger and hums.

“How about we start easy, darling,” Aziraphale says as his hands move slowly through Crowley’s tresses. “Tell me you love me, Crowley.”

“Love you, Aziraphale.”

“And how much do you love me, dear?” The strokes through his hair become more insistent, almost tugging. It’s just short of the pressure that Crowley craves. He likes when Aziraphale pulls his hair, likes the sharp sting of it. Aziraphale is well versed in Crowley’s weaknesses by now, and knows exactly how to use them to his advantage.2

His words are stuck in his throat, he opens his mouth to speak, finding nothing. He wants to say them, _he needs to say them._ “Just… just love you…” he manages to shove out around the lump in his throat. 

He thinks of Eden, thinks of a sword, thinks of the orange glow of holy fire. Thinks of how Aziraphale could have struck him down then and there, even without it. Thinks of this shop, up in flames. Of himself, walking through Hellfire for his angel. How could ‘I love you’ ever be enough to convey things? How many dead languages could he resurrect, in their rusted clay, etched into the centuries to try to find the words he actually _wants_ , the words that don’t exist or maybe never did?

Aziraphale tugs on his hair just a little, breaking him from his thoughts. It’s enough to be an accident, yet too much to not be purposeful. The tiny bit of reward spurs him onward, if only slightly. 

“Loved you for so long, loved you so much.” Bright fire dances at the edge of his vision. Amber blazes that contain his love, his life. He’s not scared of fire anymore. “I would’ve burned hell to the ground if you’d asked,” he looks up at Aziraphale, sees the pleased look on the angel’s face as the tugging becomes more insistent.

“Very good, Crowley — no, no, slow down, dove.” Crowley hadn’t realized his strokes had gotten faster, but he obliges and slows, feeling his release recede once again. His relief once again denied as he plants a kiss on Aziraphale’s thigh. “That’s better, you’re meant to be holding back, my love.” Aziraphale leans down and kisses the top of his head, “now, tell me more.”

“I love you, angel,” Crowley gasps out as he runs his thumb over the tip of his cock. “Way back in the past, before the Arrangement. The centuries I didn’t see you would be the worst, I just wanted to exist in your light. I didn’t know what to call it, just knew I wanted you there.”

He looks up at Aziraphale, sees the bright smile and fondness there, and knows he’s said the right thing.

* * *

Aziraphale looks down at Crowley as he writhes in his lap. His hand moves deliberately and gently through Crowley’s hair, carding through strands and tugging in turns. Crowley is beautiful like this, giving himself over. It’s a vulnerable side that Aziraphale is privileged to see, and he knows it.

He watches the way Crowley leans into his touch, the way his toes curl every time he tugs on the demon’s hair, the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing gets deeper. Crowley’s pleasure, his comfort, his very being right now is cradled in Aziraphale’s lap, trusting him implicitly. 

He’s gotten to see this side of Crowley, more and more as the months have gone past. Both of them are healing, and they’re healing together. Aziraphale doesn’t cast his eyes skyward as much as he used to, and Crowley only circles him to drag a gentle hand across his lower back and pull him in close. They are content now, together and comfortable in the safety of each other.

They had always kept little bits of each other, though neither had been aware. Crowley’s are more subtle - he had given Aziraphale the grand tour that first morning before they went their separate ways. The statue, the lectern, the falcon, things that brought memories. There on his desk had been an ornate box, sealed shut with a bit of demonic power. Inside of it had been a single white feather, older than history itself. That had spoken more volumes than Aziraphale would ever need to hear.

And now this. This vulnerability and supplication. This letting go and letting Aziraphale lead. It’s everything to him. After all of the push and pull, after all the times he’s hurt Crowley in their time together on Earth, Aziraphale never would have thought he could have this. Never thought Crowley could trust him like this.

It’s a new step to their relationship, but they take this leap together.

“All that time, you wanted me there?” Aziraphale asks, pulling just a bit harder, relishing the moan it pulls out of Crowley. “In those early days, what did you want then?”

“Just to be around you,” Crowley’s breath is ragged and harsh, his movements erratic. “Could’ve smited me and I would’ve said thank you, just to be near you. Just to be around you.”

Aziraphale’s heart aches for the past, for the time they’ve wasted. All the time spent wondering, spent filing things away. Time spent terrified of Hell and brainwashed by Heaven. But through all of that, they had each other. Even if it wasn’t the way they both wanted. Even if it wasn’t the touch that Aziraphale so desperately craved, that he now knows Crowley wanted just as badly.

But now… Now they have all the time in the world, and they can take it as they please.

“That’s enough of that, dear,” Aziraphale says as he takes hold of Crowley’s hand, pulling it away from his surely aching cock. “On your back now, I think.” 

Crowley blinks at him a couple of times, but clambers off of him and settles himself against the plush pillows, legs spread and cock still at attention. Crowley’s eyes stay locked on him, even as he makes himself comfortable. Aziraphale wants to ravish him, to take his cock in his mouth and let him spill down his throat. To join them together in all those messy human ways. For them both to chase pleasure in each other, to love and be loved in every way that they can be.

But it isn’t the time for that just yet, and Aziraphale can be patient. That’s not what Crowley needs right now. Aziraphale can be what Crowley needs right now.

He watches Crowley settle in, watches him fidget. Crowley’s hands move from crossed over his chest, to at his sides, to gripping one elbow; every motion made a little more endearing by the too-long sleeves of Aziraphale’s shirt. He’s nervous despite his trademark smirk. Always trying to be cool in every situation, but never quite hitting that mark.

Aziraphale wants to wrap Crowley up in himself, just like he’s wrapped up in the shirt now. He wants to hold him in his heart, in his chest where he’ll always be safe and loved and cared for. He’ll settle for this for now.

He climbs onto the foot of the bed, settles himself on his knees between Crowley’s legs. His hands come to rest on Crowley’s knobby and bony ankles. Aziraphale has always thought Crowley a masterpiece carved from marble, delicate lines concealing a solidity underneath. A heart that beats in time with the stars he helped create, a heart that loves with more power than any of Her creations. Aziraphale has to take a moment, aware of just how lucky he is that this resplendent creature trusts in him, puts that star-bright heart in his hands to hold and to care for.

He traces small circles with his thumbs over delicate bones of Crowley’s ankles. Crowley sighs and sinks back into the pillows, hands finally coming to rest splayed out on his thighs.

“Alright, darling?”

“Yes, wonderful actually, angel.” He sounds love drunk, blissful. Aziraphale wants Crowley to feel like this all the time, wants to be the continued reason for it for the rest of the time they have.

Aziraphale wants with more than a little desperation to be who Crowley considers ‘home’.

* * *

Crowley watches Aziraphale watching him from the foot of the bed. He tries to relax into the pillows, finds it difficult. His feet want to twitch, his fingers curl and uncurl. The ghost of the orgasm he almost had washes over him, makes him feel drunk. Makes his head spin, but in a good way.

He likes when Aziraphale is in control. Figured it out by accident, really. Crowley coming apart with his wrist pinned to the bed and Aziraphale’s thumb in his mouth, or spilling heavy and quick down Aziraphale’s throat with the angel’s hands pressed into the divot of his hips to keep him still. 

It took a lot, far more than it should have, for Crowley to ask for more. He’d been scared, terrified really. Aziraphale wasn’t a soldier anymore, and Crowley had worried he might be insulted. Too close to the hereditary-enemies-thing that Aziraphale still apologizes for every so often. 

He had finally asked, over crepes of all things, at a little French bakery. Had voiced what he needed, not being able to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. Had explained how, sometimes, it was nice to be out of his head entirely. To not have to think about what he needed, to trust it would be provided. To let his anxieties and fears and worries just melt and be taken up in Aziraphale’s hands instead.

Aziraphale had reached slowly across the table, grasped Crowley’s hands in his. Told him they would go slow, and they would figure it out together. Told Crowley all he wanted to do, from here on out, was give Crowley all that he could.

 _“Let me take care of you, darling, like I’ve always wanted to.”_ Aziraphale had said as he leaned across the table and pressed their lips together.

It’s not something Crowley ever would have thought he needed. But now he finds if he just lets go, it’s freeing. If he lets Aziraphale take the lead, know the steps, chart the course of the dance — if he lets himself get caught up in it instead, to ride the currents of his angel’s whims — for a moment in time he can let go of everything. He can let go of the anxieties that still rattle inside of him, the fear of going too fast or of being too much. It’s the simplest thing — when he goes pliant under Aziraphale’s hands, his world starts to fall into place.

Crowley breathes in deeply, shoulders sinking, tension releasing. He thinks of drifting on the water or gliding through clouds. Thinks of weightlessness, of love, and of belonging. He can do exactly what Aziraphale wants him to do, because it’s also exactly what _he_ wants to do.

Crowley exhales, breathes back in. Crowley lets go.

He starts to take himself in hand again, ready to work himself back at Aziraphale’s word. “Not yet, darling.” There it is, the command of it. The sureness and the firm resignation even within an endearment that makes Crowley shiver, makes his arousal pool in the pit of his stomach, keeps him right on the edge of wanting.

He raises an eyebrow, searches Aziraphale’s face for an answer but finds none. He settles his hands at his sides, waiting for whatever will happen next.

Aziraphale takes his time, as he always does. He focuses on Crowley’s ankles, hands steady and sure, practically massaging them. It’s relaxing and maddening all at the same time.

“Tell me a story, Crowley,” Aziraphale says and it isn’t a request. Crowley’s brain short circuits. Six millennia holds a lot of stories. This shop holds a lot of stories. His imagination, much more active than your average demon’s, holds a billion more. “Tell me a story about _us_ , darling.” Aziraphale amends with a smile, probably reading the nervousness on Crowley’s face.

“Wh..what kind of story?” He’s hyper-focused on the contact point between Aziraphale’s hands on his ankles, waiting for the penny to drop. Waiting for what comes next, kept on edge and half hard just by not knowing. 

“A story that makes you… happy.” Aziraphale smiles at him like he’s someone worth smiling at. Like his black heart hadn’t rotted out millennia ago. And, Crowley thinks, maybe it never did. Not completely. Not when Aziraphale can reach inside of him, take out that black coal heart and turn it over in his hands. Make it beat again, make it sing.

Crowley lets his head fall against the pillows and closes his eyes. He concentrates, looking for a story to tell. Only the best one will do, only the best for his angel. He won’t accept anything less from his jittering mind.

Aziraphale starts to stroke his skin; featherlight touches trailing up his calves to his knees then back down again. Lackadaisical, if Crowley could form words that long right now. Meandering might work better. Definitely not purposeful, but he shudders at them anyway. Feels the gooseflesh rise on his skin in the wake of Aziraphale’s careful hands.

Sometimes Aziraphale burns too bright and it hurts Crowley to look at him directly; this fussy angel, the sun at the center of Crowley’s universe. His eyes wander around the room. This mismatched bric-a-brac of Aziraphale’s long existence. He’s seen so much of it now, but there’s always something he’s missed. A stray novel he hadn’t noticed, a detail in a picture frame, a coffee ring on the nightstand.

Aziraphale has kept memories, catalogued here in this flat. The first time Crowley came up here, his breath had caught in his throat. All over the flat, bits and pieces of the two of them together. Pictures and paintings, some he knew about some he did not. Some commissioned by the greatest artists of their time and others simple and plain, but priceless to the angel who keeps them. And at the center, a deep blue chest, charted with stars. Inside of it a wealth of treasures - a program from Hamlet, oyster shells, an Arthurian sword - nestled amongst these, a single black feather, older than history itself.

Crowley focuses on this as Aziraphale speaks again.

“You can do it, dearest, just a happy memory. Tell me a happy memory from before.”

Crowley breathes deep, focuses on the feel of those well-manicured hands, the slow trail of them. He thinks to the past, thinks to his long life and to his time with Aziraphale. He feels Aziraphale’s eyes on the rise and fall of his chest, patiently watching, waiting for the answer. He thinks of the chest, secure and safe and full of important things, his mind wanders to a safe in his flat. To a tartan thermos. To a night washed in neon and rainfall when the angel had smelled of petrichor.

“Sixty-seven,” Crowley finally says, around a crack in his voice, “Nineteen sixty-seven. I went too fast for you. I tried to rob a church.” He laughs, can’t help himself. It’s a ridiculous answer his brain has landed on, but a truthful one.

He remembers that night with stunning clarity. He can still smell the alcohol in the bar, the smoke in the streets. He can still see the way the pink neon lights reflected in Aziraphale's hair, made him glow. He can remember just how fast his heart had raced when he’d touched that thermos of Holy Water. How it had tingled in his fingertips, taking on a vague consecration of its own purely through contact. 

He hears the words Aziraphale told him, hears the promise he found underneath them.

Aziraphale’s hands stop moving, press lightly against his shins. A grounding weight on him, familiar and steady. Crowley’s still laughing when he looks at Aziraphale. The angel’s head is tilted to one side in confusion, a question on his features. Crowley’s laugh dies down and he begins to worry. But Aziraphale smiles at him again, resumes his movements with a bit more pressure this time.

“Why then?” Aziraphale’s hands move higher, teasingly light touches to Crowley’s inner thighs, tantalizingly close to where he wants to be touched. He fists his hands into the sheets. “I thought I had wounded you quite deeply, with how your car shot off into the night.”

There’s a look on Aziraphale’s face, a worry that brings to mind that night. A furrow to his brow, a seriousness. Crowley wants to kiss it away, wants to hold Aziraphale until it passes, wants to… wants to…

“When you said ‘you go too fast for me’…” Crowley says around his labored breaths as Aziraphale’s thumb just brushes past the base of his cock. Soft fingers finding the jut of his hip bones, tracing trails of fire there. “When you said that, Aziraphale, I knew. I knew it was a promise, I knew you were here. I knew you cared, that it wasn’t just me. I knew that if I could just hold on, if I could wait for you, that someday we’d have that picnic. That someday we’d have the Ritz. That someday we’d have each other.”

Aziraphale crawls up over him, kisses him deeply, one hand on his hip, the other cradling his neck. The sensation is too much — the deepness of the kiss, the velvet of that worn waistcoat against his cock, the softness of the mattress contrasting the solidness of his angel. He tangles his hands in platinum curls, pulling Aziraphale impossibly closer. Licks into his mouth and ruts against him, knowing he’ll be chastised for it momentarily but needing some form of friction. Taking this affection as the reward it is; freely given and unconditional, but a reward all the same.

They separate and Aziraphale tuts at him as he rises back up to his knees, waving a hand to miracle the precome out of his waistcoat before resuming the slow pilgrimage of his hands.

“Really, Crowley, must you be so impatient?” He asks in a way that tries to be stern but falls directly into fondness instead. Crowley loves him.

“Driving me crazy, angel, I need you.”

“We can stop the game, if you need to,” Aziraphale says, suddenly quite serious. “We can stop the teasing if it’s too much for you, dear. This only continues the way that _you_ want it to, and if you want this to go differently you need only tell me so.”

Crowley thinks on it for a moment. Thinks about his aching cock, thinks about how much he wants Aziraphale close. Wants the angel to chase his pleasure, wants to be filled with him. Wants his lips and his tongue and his teeth, on every inch of him pushing him further and further until he careens over the edge to the jagged rocks at the bottom. 

But he also thinks of the build, of the looseness. Of Aziraphale’s smile and his voice, soft and sweet like honey as he praises him. Of how it feels to let go, how it feels when Aziraphale takes care of him like this. Of how this is working, but more than that, he’s _enjoying_ it. This slow tension, this molasses-drunk build of things. Soft and slow and methodical. He finds his answer with certainty.

“No, keep going.”

* * *

The words sink into his heart, grip it tightly. Aziraphale leans in to kiss Crowley again, softer this time, less rushed.

“Thank you, Crowley,” he whispers against Crowley’s lips. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Crowley lets out a string of unintelligible noises as he wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s neck, clinging and whiny. It’s endearing and adorable and Aziraphale wants to give him everything.

“Now I want you to hold still, darling, can you do that for me?” Aziraphale asks, hazel eyes searching gold. Crowley nods, not breaking eye contact. “I need to hear it, my love.”

“I can stay still, Aziraphale.” Crowley’s voice cracks. He’s never been good at staying still; but for Aziraphale, he will. 

“Wonderful, dove,” Aziraphale says as he kisses the corner of Crowley’s mouth, “always so good to me.” Crowley keens at the praise, always insistent that it’s no good for a demon. But Aziraphale knows better. Feels the waves of love that radiate stronger with every uttered word. He whispers ‘beautiful’ into the apples of Crowley’s cheeks. Bites ’wonderful’ into the line of his neck. Swipes ‘brave’ and ‘handsome’ over his collarbones with his tongue. Circles ‘kindhearted’ and ‘amazing’ around one nipple and then the other.

Crowley’s pulse jumps with every press of lips. His breath staggers in his lungs as Aziraphale's fingers find their destination in the gaps between his ribs. He holds tight to him, lavishing his love in words and kisses upon his skin. He gives Crowley this reward for how well he’s done so far.

“You’re doing wonderfully, darling,” he whispers into his demon’s skin as he works his way back up his neck, past the bowtie, to kiss him again. Feels the rasp of Crowley’s breath against his mouth. “So wonderful and good for me, aren’t you?”

“M’not,” Crowley says again, just as before. He’s been pushed away so many times. From Her light, from Aziraphale. Their push and pull, their give and take over the centuries, has left a mark on him. The fires of Hell still burn in Crowley’s skin, still haunt his memories. It’s a hard road for Crowley to get where he wants to be, but Aziraphale will do everything in his power to get him there someday. 

“I’ll have none of that talk right now, darling.” Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s nose, just to watch him wrinkle it at him. Just so he can kiss it again and listen to him groan. That just won’t do.

Aziraphale’s fingers move quickly, staccato touches up and down Crowley’s ribcage, right where he’s weakest to it. Aziraphale kisses his cheeks, his nose, his forehead — everywhere he can reach — as Crowley giggles and squirms, trying his best to get away from Aziraphale’s surprisingly nimble fingers. Barking out laughter and shouting curses in dead languages that have no bite to them. The golden yellow of his eyes spreads, unable to be contained in his fits of happiness. Soft like sunflowers, sparkling like starlight, like they shine just for him. Just for Aziraphale. 

Crowley’s laughter is Aziraphale’s favorite sound, better than any Sondheim opening night he’s been to. Crowley laughs like sunshine, all warmth and renewal. It rings out like bells, golden and lilting. Not brassy or tarnished, but beautiful and shining. Gold like his ring, gold like the satin band on the hat Aziraphale used to wear. Gold like the lamplight on the streets back in forty-one; when he first believed they might want the same thing.

It’s loud and it’s raucous, like a symphony of its own. And Aziraphale would play it back a billion times, leave it stuck in his head on repeat for centuries, and never get tired of it.

A few more well-placed kisses to Crowley’s neck and Aziraphale comes back to the bowtie. It’s nice to see Crowley wearing it but it keeps tickling his nose. And further than that, he did an _abysmal_ job of tying it in the first place. He stops his roaming fingertips, brings them to rest on Crowley’s hips, thumbs brushing the protruding bone there.

He takes the end of the bowtie in his teeth and rises back onto his knees slowly, keeping his eyes locked with Crowley’s the whole time. The bowtie comes free as Crowley’s eyes go wide, and Aziraphale can feel his renewed arousal against his leg.

Aziraphale folds up the bowtie, carefully and neatly, and sets it to the side. He watches Crowley’s eyes track the movements, watches the precome beading on the tip of his cock, feels his own erection straining against his trousers. 

“You’ve told me one happy memory, darling, how about a different one?” Aziraphale asks, reaching for the side table and the small bottle within it, Crowley’s eyes still following. “How about...how about when you first knew you loved me?”

“When I first… “ Crowley says, trailing off, watching intently as Aziraphale flips the cap on the bottle and coats his fingers. “When I first…”

“Don’t get lost on me, dearest,” Aziraphale says, leaning in and kissing him softly. Relishing the hitch of Crowley’s breath as he slowly circles a finger at his entrance. 

The anticipation is half of the fun, Aziraphale knows this well. Knows how to take his demon apart piece by piece. They’re well-practiced in it now, though it always feels new. Aziraphale knows the sharp trails and turns of Crowley’s spine; Crowley knows the meandering paths of Aziraphale’s curves. They walk these roads together, exploring and always finding something new.

“When I first…”

“When you first knew, darling,” Aziraphale trails kisses down his neck, pressing his love into the muscle and sinew there, “When you first knew you loved me, when you first wanted me, I want to know.”

Quite suddenly and with alarming clarity, Aziraphale comes to a realization. He _needs_ to know. He had pushed Crowley away for so long, and he’s gripped by the very sudden and visceral need to know. Crowley isn’t the only one with inner turmoil, and Aziraphale’s is very specific. Drilled into him from the beginning of time itself. Why should he be considered worthy? Why should he be considered good enough? 

Why — after all the pain and sadness, even if it were tempered with camaraderie and good times — is Crowley still here with someone so patently unworthy of him?

Aziraphale slides the first finger in slowly, smiles distantly when Crowley’s back arches and he moans out. “Tell me, darling,” he says against Crowley’s neck, more teeth than words, “I want to know. I want to know why you chose me.”

* * *

Crowley hisses with pleasure when Aziraphale breaches his entrance, but the desperation in the angel’s voice doesn’t miss him. How could Crowley not choose him? After all they went through? 

He remembers Heaven, remembers the stark concrete and the bitter chill. He remembers their methods. Crowley has been by Aziraphale’s side, through all of time, watching these _bastards_ claim to be his family, but give him none of the love a family is supposed to. There’s no belonging in Heaven - just loneliness. That’s what they don’t mention in the stipulations of all those Holy Books (misprint or otherwise). 

But they are insidious, they make you think it’s right. Make you think that’s how it should be. Hell isn’t any better, just another side of the same coin. But Crowley remembers, has known both. Aziraphale could only ever get here in his own time, and Crowley would’ve waited six thousand millennia if it meant being here at Aziraphale’s side at the end of things.

Whatever Aziraphale wants, Crowley will give it to him, as long as he’s able. Every day from now to eternity. Until the Earth ends in actuality and they’re just two drifters, sailing down the rivers of starlight by the light of distant moons orbiting worlds they've never seen.

Condense them down into one singularity. Or one binary star, orbiting around each other in constant motion, until everything burns out to dust. That’s what they’ve always been, in one way or another. But if Aziraphale wants to know where that orbit started to decay, where Crowley felt the shift in the atoms of his being, in the beat of his heart, drawing him in closer and closer to this bright and beautiful angel; then that’s what Aziraphale will have.

“R-Rome,” Crowley cries out as Aziraphale pulses his finger in and out, working him back open slowly and methodically. “Rome, everything was bad, but as soon as you were there it wasn’t bad anymore. You spoke to me, tried to cheer me up, told me a bloody _joke —ah! —_ and a bad one at that. But you shared the wine with me, took me for oysters. Nasty things — _gah!—_ disgusting, really. But the sounds you made, the smile on your face… Angel, I had never seen anything shine so bright as you did in Rome.”

They had toasted — to Yeshua, to each other, to the world — had laughed themselves silly, drunk on more than just wine. Crowley had wanted so badly to just fall into him then, the first time he had ever craved the touch of another. He had wanted to know what it would be like to hold hands with someone, to feel a pulse against your palm (not that they needed them). To feel that level of trust from another being. But not just any being, the only one who ever mattered.

“Way back then, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, voice reverent and soft. Crowley manages to crack one eye open and sees tears forming at the corners of Aziraphale’s eyes. “How did you know?”

“That day in Rome, Aziraphale, that day was everything to me,” Crowley says around the lump in his throat. Spits the words out so they can catch Aziraphale’s tears should they decide to fall. “I didn’t miss Her love anymore. You smiled at me —fussy and hedonistic and _ridiculous_ — and I felt the pieces of my life start falling into place.”

Aziraphale grips one of Crowley’s hips, holding him steady as he kisses down his chest. “Go ahead darling, you can touch yourself again.”

His cock is aching, and Crowley gratefully wraps his hand around it again, slow strokes up and down, doing his best to keep his hips from bucking.

“That’s it, darling, nice and slow,” Aziraphale coos at him, thrusting his finger in and out slowly, and the angle he knows Crowley loves, “you’re always so good for me, even when I don’t-“

“Nope, not going there,” Crowley manages to gasp out, “I know where that’s headed and no. You deserve everything, angel. Everything in the world, everything in the universe. Everything Heaven wouldn’t fucking give you, I waited, I knew—“

Aziraphale kisses him soundly, licking into his mouth. Like Crowley is water and he’s been trapped in the desert. Crowley squirms, trying to grind down while keeping time with his own strokes.

“Angel,” Crowley says when they break, straining upwards to pepper kisses on Aziraphale’s face as best he can. His breathing is heavy and the angle is wrong, but he couldn’t care less. “Angel, on the wall, that manuscript. Do you remember in Wessex, when I was a snake?”

Aziraphale’s motions still for just a moment, a confused look on his face. He follows Crowley’s line of sight to the frames on the wall. Mementos from the years they’ve been together, or even the years they’ve spent apart.

Near the bottom in a brass-gold frame is an illuminated manuscript from his time in the monastery. It’s a horrible likeness of the both of them, but what wasn’t a horrible likeness in those days.3

“They never could quite get my good side in the iron-gall,” Crowley says with a laugh, grinding down on Aziraphale’s finger to get him moving again. “They sent you to slay me, just a few years after the whole Black Knight thing. Instead we started our arrangement. I got to see more of you, all the time. Dinners and lunches and walks in parks. All of that, all of that was worth all of it.”

Aziraphale smiles at him, and it lights up the room. He should smile like that all the time, no matter what else is going on in the world at large. It spurs Crowley onwards, letting the words keep falling.

“That charcoal one,” he stutters, circling the head of his cock with his thumb, keeping his strokes slow and even, feeling the brush of the shirtsleeve against the velvet skin. “On the rigging, one of the crewmen sketched it.”

The golden age of piracy it had been, Aziraphale had traded himself for captives, knowing Crowley was on the crew. They had been talking up there for hours it had seemed. Catching up, sharing an orange. Aziraphale would cut a wedge for himself, then pass one to Crowley. A simple act of care that meant more than Crowley had known at the time.

“I still don’t know why he drew the wings,” Aziraphale says, ducking down to circle at one of Crowley’s nipples with his tongue, laving over it slowly as Crowley keens and moans.

“You’re the one who had — _guh_ — had them out.”

“It was _raining,_ darling,” Aziraphale says moving to the other, taking his time and savoring Crowley’s skin. “You would have been soaked through to the bone, and I thought I had made sure no one could see.”

“Always always keeping me dry then, angel?” Crowley asks with a smirk.

Aziraphale thrusts his finger in with purpose, making Crowley arch his back, “Not completely dry, I should think. I rather did like how that shirt clung to your wet skin.”

“Bastard,” Crowley gasps out, his other hand coming to tangle in Aziraphale’s hair as the angel continues his pilgrimage of kisses and nips over his skin. His strokes on his cock are faster, and he can feel the precipice in sight again, but he won’t come until Aziraphale says he can. “I’d wondered what happened to it; had wanted to keep it.”

“Why?”

“Don’t you remember, angel?” Crowley asks around a moan. “That was the first time you said you trusted me; wanted a souvenir, I guess.”

Aziraphale stops and locks eyes with him. The hand not currently occupied keeping Crowley teasingly on edge reaches out, cupping his face. Another deep kiss from his angel, his only love, the only one that matters.

“Stop, dearheart,” Aziraphale says into their shared space when they break and Crowley lets go of himself again, nearly crying at the need for release. It recedes from him, like a slow wave. It’s agonizing how badly he wants to let it go, to reach the top of this cliff and jump off into the brackish green waters. 

Aziraphale takes both of Crowley’s hands in one, entwines their fingers together possessively, as though envious of the air between them. He pins Crowley to the headboard by his wrists, like being wound in creeping vines. He’s happily restrained and restricted, held in place by his love’s strong hands. 

Aziraphale pulls out slowly, agonizingly so, and hovers two slicked fingers at Crowley’s entrance this time.

The anticipation makes him think of Eden, of the verdant green of everything there. The smell of it, of everything new. The flowers and the grass and even the trees. Aziraphale had seemed so strong and imposing, and yet so approachable. Crowley had coiled there, at the base of the wall, debating with himself for hours if he should climb it or not. Something ineffable, pulling them closer, spurring him onward to creep like an ivy up the sun-warmed stones, to meet this angel, to set in motion the course of his life to come.

He wonders sometimes, if he hadn’t taken that chance, if he hadn’t slithered up that wall. Where would they be now?

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale says against Crowley’s ear, pressing down into him with all of his weight. It’s grounding, it’s comforting. The soft curves of his angel, even buttoned up as he is. It slows his racing heart, evens out his breaths.

“I love you, too,” Crowley gasps out, straining against Aziraphale’s hold to turn and kiss him wherever he can reach. The angles are weird and they shouldn’t work, but Crowley’s spine isn’t entirely human anyway so he doesn’t care.

“What about the last one, darling?” Aziraphale rasps into his neck through his teeth and it sends a shock right through the core of him. Aziraphale pauses there, teeth on his skin, breathing deeply and waiting for Crowley to continue. 

“The last what?” Crowley asks, his voice is frayed and cracked, at his limit for what he can take. Aziraphale’s fingers stay still against his entrance.

“The last painting, Crowley,” Aziraphale growls low into his ear. “What do you see in the last painting?”

Aziraphale is still refusing to move, refusing to push in, no matter how much he writhes and squirms and tries to get what he wants. Aziraphale is still keeping him tantalizingly on the edge of pleasure, untouched and still coming undone.

“The last painting…” He remembers sitting for that portrait, he hadn't been sure at the time why Aziraphale had insisted. Why he'd wanted to commemorate them settling into the same continent, same country, same city. 

"What do you remember of it, my heart?" Aziraphale growls low into his ear. Aziraphale is still refusing to move, refusing to push in, no matter how much he writhes and squirms and tries to get what he wants. Aziraphale is still keeping him tantalizingly on the edge of pleasure.

"You had us sit for that. Took hours, horrid day. But the man who was painting, he had me put my hand on your knee. Three hours and twenty-seven minutes, my hand was on your knee. Three hours and twenty-seven minutes, Aziraphale, I'll remember it forever." He swallows hard as Aziraphale finally starts to move, working in the second finger he so desperately wanted. "It felt like coming home. And that's why, isn't it? You had that made because we were _home_."

* * *

_Home_.

Aziraphale lets the word in, lets it rattle around his skull. Home. A place to live, but more than that. A deep striking to the heart would be more like it. A place of acceptance, also. And Aziraphale feels it. Feels it in the love blooming here between them, as he opens Crowley up, feels Crowley writhing underneath him. 

Theirs is a specific love, an old and well-worn one. And looking back, not just over these months, but over these centuries, they’ve always had it. It’s been theirs, all along. Home, happiness, and belonging — here with each other.

Crowley’s wrists strain against Aziraphale’s hand as he moans and squirms. The tightness and heat of him spark straight to the core of Aziraphale, and his own erection strains at his trousers. 

He kisses Crowley’s forehead, tastes the sweat there, the salt of him; feels Crowley’s hardness against his thigh. “You’re doing so well for me, my love,” he whispers like a secret, “holding still for me, letting me take care of you. So wonderful and patient for me. Gorgeous creature that you are. You open up so beautifully for me, dearest.” Aziraphale lets his head fall to Crowley’s shoulder, nuzzles into his neck, “so good for me, aren’t you darling?”

“Yes. Just… just for you, angel, only ever for you,” Crowley gasps out, ragged and wanting.

“My love, my light, my heart,” Aziraphale says, peppering kisses to Crowley’s face between endearments. “My world, my everything,” he continues, relishing the low whine it drags out of his demon, still so unused to being shown affection. 

“Angel,” Crowley gasps, still straining unconsciously against the strong grip, grinding down on Aziraphale’s fingers. The word falls from Crowley’s lips in languages alive and dead. “Mon ange, ænġel, enkeli, 𒂊𒄈𒌅…”4

“Tell me,” Aziraphale doesn’t manage to hide the crack in his voice, doesn’t even try to. The little bit of friction he has, pressed against Crowley as he is, is enough to be maddening. He ruts against Crowley’s leg, just a little, needing something — _anything_ — to slow his pulse down even a little. “Crowley, my darling, my dearest…”

“Anything, ḱr̥désh₁moi leypekanpéth₂r̥, anything.”5 The ancient endearment sparks something dark and wanting in Aziraphale and he moans out. Crowley arches up, crashing their lips together. It’s not really a kiss, they’re both breathing too heavy for that. Just lips on lips, gasping into each other’s mouths. Crowley gasps and keens in time with Aziraphale’s strokes. 

He knows, of course, just how to take Crowley apart with just his fingers. Knows to go in fast and come back out slow, knows to linger at his entrance, knows just how to twist once he’s inside. Knows the measure of Crowley’s breaths, knows when he’s close.

Crowley’s breaths become shuddering things, Aziraphale can feel a wet spot spreading where Crowley’s cock is pressed against his thigh.

“Angel,” Crowley says and it comes out a whimper. “Aziraphale, I’m close.”

Aziraphale’s mind is a haze of so many things. He’s drunk on Crowley’s skin; on his kiss and on his love, washing over him in waves. He wants to give in, wants to wave his own clothes away, bury himself so deep inside of Crowley that they become one entity, one being. 

But it’s not time for that yet. Aziraphale swallows hard, pushing down the want and the need — for Crowley’s sake — and stills his fingers inside of him, pressed right up against his prostate, keeping him right where he wants him. 

“Tell me, my darling,” Aziraphale says through his own ragged breaths, grounding himself back down and steadying his own heartbeat. “Tell me, have you ever…” Crowley’s eyes search his face, one eyebrow raised, waiting impatiently, arms slack where they hang against the headboard. “When I came home today… I can’t help but wonder… that is…”

“Out with it, angel,” Crowley says, infinitely fond, “What do you want to know?” Aziraphale watches Crowley’s chest rise and fall, deep gulping breaths in and out. Sees the flush on his face, creeping down his neck and bright pink against the blue of the shirt collar. There’s a sheen of sweat on his skin, and his hair sticks to it. On his forehead, his cheeks, his neck.

“Have you ever thought of me, in the past,” Aziraphale asks, slowly and carefully. He’s not sure why he wants to know; what the purpose of that knowledge is. But he finds himself curious all the same, “Have you ever touched yourself… and thought of me?”

Crowley stops moving and stares him right in the eyes, the whole weight of that starmaker gaze leveled against Aziraphale’s own stormcloud eyes. 

Slowly, methodically, and looking utterly besotted — Crowley smiles, and Aziraphale’s heart flutters.

* * *

Oh and isn’t that the most loaded question of the night. How many times and how many ways? How many nights has Crowley spent over the centuries just as Aziraphale found him? Fucking his own fist and crying out the angel’s name.

He smiles despite himself. Not his usual Cheshire Cat grin or his mischievous smirk. A real and true smile, spreading across his face. All of that time spent wishing, not just for this but for everything that comes with loving someone and being loved in return, and now everything he’s ever wanted is right here. In this bed and in this room, above the bookshop that’s been the only place that ever felt like home. 

The stones in his throat loosen, the floodgates threaten to open. He loves Aziraphale. Loves him so fucking much it hurts sometimes. Even now, the touch of a hand or the quirk of a smile, all of it shocks him back to life, makes his heart skip a beat. Every single time.

“Never knew how good it would be, angel.” Crowley says as he lets the tension leave his shoulders. “But yes, Aziraphale, so many times. Too many to count. Your love is the only fantasy I ever really had.”

He blinks a few times, surprised at how easy the words have fallen. This thing he’s been trying to do on his own, this hurdle he hasn’t been able to jump, now seems like nothing at this moment. Aziraphale’s love and his careful words have done that; all it took from him was listening and letting go.

Aziraphale kisses him, softly and gently. A sharp contrast to the angel’s growing interest that Crowley can feel very solidly against his leg. Crowley wants him, wants Aziraphale to take him, to ravish him. Let him flay himself open here on this bed, Crowley will remake himself as an altar only to Aziraphale and the love that they share.

Aziraphale starts to move again, pushing Crowley closer and closer. A slow build, despite everything else. Warmth and heat building at the core of him with every stroke of Aziraphale’s fingers. Aziraphale starts to pull back from his lips and Crowley chases after him, desperate to deepen the kiss. He strains against the hold on his wrist, but Aziraphale honest to Satan _giggles_ at him and keeps just far enough away. Just enough that every kiss is only a mere brush of lips, never close enough for more than that as Crowley tries over and over again. 

“Stop laughing you insufferable bastard,” Crowley tries to snap but it sounds more like an endearment.

“I shan’t,” Aziraphale says, kissing his nose, “I love you far too much to be anything less than joyous in your presence.”

“ _Joyous in your presence_ ,” Crowley mocks in a high pitched voice under his breath. Aziraphale just laughs more and kisses him again, letting it be deeper this time. The hand pinning his wrists slides slowly down his forearm, coming to tangle in his hair. Aziraphale cradles his head possessively as he presses him down into the mattress, tongue teasing at his lips.

Crowley opens for him gladly, sighing at the relief of the tension breaking in his arms. He slides his fingers into Aziraphale’s hair, twining the short curls between his fingers. Feeling the push and the pull of Aziraphale’s fingers juxtaposed with the soft swipe of his tongue.

Aziraphale goes to sit upright, pulling Crowley along with him, never breaking the kiss. He slides his hand under the blue cotton shirt, trying to push it down off Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley lets go of him just long enough to shimmy out of it and toss it to the floor before falling back on the mattress again.

Crowley tosses his head back into the pillows, exposing the full line of his neck to Aziraphale’s kisses as he works his way down. Down Crowley’s chest, over his stomach, all the way to his hip bones. Crowley’s erection never left, still standing fully at attention as Aziraphale’s fingers slow again.

“Tell me, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice is a whisper away from his cock and it sends a shiver up Crowley’s spine. Aziraphale looks up at him through his eyelashes, locking eyes with him. “Tell me about a time when you’ve touched yourself and thought of me, I want to know.”

“Fucking _hell_ , angel, you’re gonna kill me talking like th—“

He’s interrupted by Aziraphale swallowing him down, all the way in one go. Crowley’s back arches off the mattress as he cries out Aziraphale’s name. The relief at finally — _finally_ — being seen to washes over him like waves. Like a tempest sea, the relief is churning and violent, but not murky. It’s bright and clear blue, like the ocean to the south on a summer’s day. Aziraphale pulls back slow, pressing his tongue against the underside as he goes then flicking it against the tip. He nuzzles against it and looks up at Crowley through his eyelashes, the picture of debauched and innocent all at once. 

“Tell me, Crowley.” Aziraphale says, kissing down the side of his cock before dragging his tongue back up the length of it, “I want to know.”

“I’m not proud of it,” Crowley says, inhaling sharply as Aziraphale licks the beading precome off the tip. The moans that come from him belong in one of those raunchy movies they used to run all night at the Scala.

“Tell me anyway.” The request is so earnest, so purposeful, that Crowley knows he has to. The kisses Aziraphale is still pressing to his cock are slow and languid. Like a meandering stream, taking its time flowing to the rivers and out to the seas.

Crowley swallows thickly. “Wessex, in my tent. You were so frustrat— _Aziraphale!_ ” He cries out as Aziraphale takes him in again, pulsing his fingers in time with his mouth. Crowley can’t stop himself from bucking up into Aziraphale’s mouth, chasing the feeling. Hazel eyes flickering just this side of slate look up at him as Aziraphale lays a purposeful hand on Crowley’s hip as he pulls off slowly.

“I need you to hold still for me, darling, can you do that?” Aziraphale asks and Crowley whines. “Just a little more for me, darling? You’re so very, very good for me.”

Crowley breathes in deep, steadies himself back, and fists his hands in the sheets. “Yeah, for you, only for you angel. I love you.”

“I love you, my darling, my everything, so wonderful for me always. Go on then, keep going.”

Aziraphale swallows him down, setting a slow and arduous pace with his mouth and with his hand. It’s almost too much, like he’s being pulled underwater. He doesn’t mind, he’ll drown in the oceans of Aziraphale and be a shipwreck at the bottom of the angel’s heart. Dead men tell no tales, and Crowley will speak no more. Content to let the saltwater and the brine tear his atoms apart down to the smallest part of his existence. Let him be the salinity in the sea of Aziraphale’s soul.

“W…Wessex…” Crowley pants out, screwing his eyes shut. His body wants to strain as his mind drops a chorus of _stay still, stay still, stay still._ For Aziraphale, anything. He’ll stay in this bed and not move an inch, not one iota, for the next 6000 years if he needs to, to make Aziraphale happy. “Infuriating bastard, always so difficult. But _fuck_ you were a sight in that armor. Holy and defiant, every bit the soldier you were meant to be. Thought of you striking me down, in more ways than one. Went back to my tent, touched myself for the first time.”

Aziraphale hums his approval around his cock and crooks his fingers. It’s electric in all the right ways and Crowley cries out again. “L-Learned though, trial and error. Not every time we met, but a lot of them. I’d go — _fuck, gah_ — back to wherever I was staying. I’d think of you taking me against the wall, fucking me until I couldn’t walk. Or of fucking you into the bed, or fucking those delicious thighs of yours. Sometimes just thinking of sucking you off was enough to last me hours, Aziraphale — _ngk —_ I’ve always wanted you.”

It’s too much, the slow drag of Aziraphale’s lips and tongue, the firm and gentle kneading of his fingers. He wants to grind down, he wants to thrust up. He wants everything, anything, whatever he can have. He wants Aziraphale in every way that someone can be wanted; knows Aziraphale wants him in turn.

“Angel, I’m close, I can’t—“ 

“You can, darling,” Aziraphale says, pulling off of him again, but keeping the pace with his fingers. Opening Crowley up, splitting him in two here on this bed. The edges of his vision are whiting out, but he can’t come yet, not yet. Not until Aziraphale says he can. He takes that message, grasps it with both hands and holds it tight to his chest. 

Aziraphale takes him in again and Crowley screams out, his back arching off the bed at an angle that shouldn’t be possible. Suddenly the room is filled with a burst of black feathers.

* * *

Brilliant black feathers flitter about the room as Aziraphale watches Crowley’s wings shudder at their sudden manifestation. They hit the nightstand, knocking a few books to the floor and a lamp along with them. He jumps back off of Crowley, scooting to the edge of the mattress to give him room to stretch and to better take in the view.

Aziraphale has always loved Crowley’s wings. He shouldn’t, they’re another mark of his Fall, another thing that brands him an alleged traitor. But even on the wall in Eden, he had marveled at the sight of them. The void-black feathers are a stark contrast to his own shining white, but no less beautiful. Most demons Aziraphale has known (though to be fair, it hasn’t been many) have had bat wings or insect wings. Most of the demons in Hell on the day of their trials didn’t hold any on their true selves at all. But not Crowley.

Swan wings with beautiful dark feathers, a depth of color that isn’t quite distinguishable unless you look closely. They appear black at first brush, but more than that. Lines and highlights of indigo and violet, not visible unless you really look. Unless you really take the time to appreciate them. Aziraphale is always struck by their beauty.

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley says, looking a bit fearful.

“I won’t hear it,” Aziraphale says, tutting fondly and reaching out to stroke softly through the feathers. Crowley hisses out a shaky breath at the intimate touch. “Your wings are so lovely dear, thank you for letting me see them today.”

“Was an accident, didn’t mean to. Overwhelmed a bit, I think.”

“Well,” Aziraphale smiles at him, his heart full to overflowing, “A happy accident, then.” Crowley nods at him and he continues stroking through the feathers. The long, thin primaries and the short coverts in turn. Watching how they catch the light, how they very nearly sparkle. The old poets would have called them ‘wine-dark’, but that’s old hat now. 

They remind him of nebulas, of colors humans can’t comprehend yet. The deep purple void of space, dotted with sparkling constellations. The work of his dear demon’s hands, burning billions of miles away. Burning to the end, staying brilliant in their waves of light long after. 

Aziraphale extends a hand and Crowley takes it, pulls him upright so he can wrap his arms around him. He gently cups Crowley’s cheek, stroking a thumb over his cheekbone. “My Crowley, oh how I love you,” Aziraphale says softly. It’s not for outside ears to hear. It’s for this space, here between them. These few inches between their lips are all the audience it needs.

“You’re a sap,” Crowley says, taking those last few inches and pressing their lips together. “But, I love you, too, my angel.”

Aziraphale strokes Crowley’s back, right where his wings connect, feels him shiver in his arms. Crowley is still hard, still hasn’t come despite all of this. He’s still waiting for permission, waiting for Aziraphale to be satisfied.

Crowley drapes his arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders, as liquid as a being that ostensibly has bones can be, and nuzzles into his neck. His breath is still heavy, and he shudders under the soft strokes along his spine. 

Aziraphale is so in love it hurts sometimes. Everything that Crowley is, well, is everything that Aziraphale has ever wanted. The patience, the kindness (no matter how much he protests). The careful hand on his back as Crowley ushers him through the door of the restaurant. The loose locking of their little fingers as they stroll through the park. The laughter that rings through the bookshop after hours, wine-soaked and sincere.

And there is this; these times when Crowley gives himself over to him. When he trusts in Aziraphale to take care of him, to know what he needs. To make love to him in just the way he likes, to take his own pleasure just as well. Thinking back on everything they’ve been through, Crowley has only ever wanted him to be safe and happy and free. And now, together, they are. 

This beautiful creature, wrapped in his arms, is everything to Aziraphale. The sun, the moon, the whole damned universe. And Crowley loves him, he feels it, every day. Even when Crowley isn’t near him, it permeates the shop and nestles between the pages of his books. Lives in the cash till and in the corks of his wine collection. Everywhere a little burst of love, love for Aziraphale and for the life they have started building together.

“Love,” Aziraphale whispers into Crowley’s ear, earning him a shaky groan, “Crowley, I want you, can I… please, darling.”

“Angel, you don’t have to beg me,” Crowley sighs and it sounds like relief, “Yes, Aziraphale, _yes_.”

He kisses Crowley deeply, scooping the demon up into his arms and repositioning the both of them at the edge of the bed. Crowley weighs about as much as a few grapes at the best of times, but right now he’s languid and pliant in Aziraphale’s arms, content to be wherever Aziraphale puts him.

Aziraphale gets both feet on the ground, Crowley’s legs bracketing him on either side. He slides one hand up to rest on the back of Crowley’s neck as the other works at the fly of his trousers.

“Darling, I love you, I want you so much, gorgeous thing,” Aziraphale says in between kisses to Crowley’s neck, to his chin, to the corner of his lips. He frees his own cock from the confines of his trousers; Crowley reaches down between them, taking it in hand and stroking slowly.

“I’m yours, angel, always have been,” Crowley gasps into his mouth, his voice is cracking, starting to wear out. Aziraphale shudders at his touch, on an edge of his own. It would be so easy to rut up into Crowley’s hand, or to take both of them in his own hand. But Aziraphale wants to hear Crowley scream his name before his voice gives out completely.

He wraps his arms around Crowley’s back, right underneath his wings. “Are you ready for me, Crowley?”

“Yes, fuck’s sake Aziraphale, have been for feels like hours.”

“Good, because I am far past ready for you, darling,” Aziraphale holds Crowley tight with one arm and lifts him up, pulling him even closer. He lines himself up and lowers Crowley down slow as treacle onto his cock as the demon hisses with pleasure.

* * *

Every star Crowley has ever hung in the sky swims in front of his eyes as he sinks down onto Aziraphale’s cock. Aziraphale pulls him down slowly, like sinking into a warm bath, and it’s everything. He’s been craving this since he first wrapped Aziraphale’s shirt around his shoulders. Since he first tied off that bowtie and realized it was too tight. 

Okay, so he’s a demon who’s in love, no one’s going to stop him now, are they?

Aziraphale stops, halfway in, and looks at him. Crowley smiles and settles himself the rest of the way down, sighing at the feeling of being filled with his angel. Relishing the way Aziraphale’s eyes flutter closed

“Greedy, aren’t you?” Aziraphale asks, dragging his teeth against Crowley’s neck.

“Insatiable, even,” Crowley tries to sound cool, but falls short and directly into desperation. He kisses Aziraphale instead before he can quip back at him.

Aziraphale’s hands coast lower to the small of his back, holding him tight and steady. Crowley opens his eyes just a little; just enough to take in the sight of the rumpled bed sheets, of the blush across Aziraphale’s cheeks, of the fading light as the sun starts to set.

Aziraphale grips him tightly and raises him up, his wings flutter at the sensation, just as sensitive to the rest of his body as anything else. Crowley buries his fingers in the soft hair at the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, lets one hand drift to the worn velvet of his waistcoat and rest there. He closes his eyes and teases at the angel’s lips with his tongue, finds a home there almost immediately.

Crowley has lost count of how many times they’ve kissed like this tonight, but he hasn’t lost the map he’s been tracing. He remembers all of them, and it’s always too long between kisses. Whether it’s a couple of seconds or several hours. Aziraphale’s hands are firm as he sinks him back down, setting a slow pace that is at times both agonizing and enthralling. The slow drag of Aziraphale’s cock pulsing in and out of him is maddening. 

“Is this alright, darling?” Aziraphale asks around Crowley’s lip that’s taken up residence between his teeth. He isn’t thrusting upwards, just moving Crowley slowly with strong and gentle hands. Crowley’s own trapped erection rubs against the warm velvet and the cool buttons of the waistcoat; the sensation threatens to undo him. “I want this to be good for you, I want to show you how I love you.”

“ _Fuck,_ angel, you feel so good.” It falls from his lips without any work, easy as breathing. It’s liberating, freeing. “Aziraphale — _gah_ — I could… I could stay right here forever.”

“Forever, darling?” Aziraphale smiles against his skin and for someone’s sake Crowley will never get tired of that feeling. The slow draw back of his lips, the slight nuzzle that comes with it, the feel of his teeth when it’s a particularly broad smile. Crowley could get drunk on that alone, smiles pressed like promises into his shoulder. Secrets for them to keep, just between the two of them.

“Yes, forever, just like this,” Crowley breathes out. He’s tired of moving slow, he needs more. He braces his knees against the bed and quickens the pace Aziraphale has set. “But, dove, I need it a little faster.”

“Faster, huh?” Aziraphale says as he bites down on Crowley’s shoulder, sucking a bruise there as Crowley’s wings shiver and his back arches. “Never can slow down, can you, darling?”

Despite his teasing, Aziraphale moves in time with him, a slow build rolling faster. His hands creep higher up Crowley’s spine, tangling in the soft feathers at the base of his wings, holding him tight to his chest.

“Only slowed down once, angel. Only ever slowed down for you,” Crowley moans as Aziraphale strokes though the scapulars at his back, nails scratching the sensitive skin there. “I’d do it again, if you asked. Over and over as slow as you need. As long as I’m here with you, that’s all I ever need.”

“Oh, _Crowley,_ ” Aziraphale sighs, pressing their lips together. Crowley’s cock is trapped between his stomach and the waistcoat and every movement gives him the friction he’s wanted. Aziraphale’s grip loosens, just enough to give Crowley control over the pace. 

“I love you, angel,” Crowley gasps out, marveling at how easy it comes now. “I loved you in Rome and I loved you in Eden, I’ve loved you I think longer than I’ve even existed. I don’t think I could’ve done anything else. Six thousand years I’ve been on this rock with you and I’d never, ever, in any timeline or any reality ever want to be here with anyone else.”

His breath stutters as he feels his orgasm quickly approaching. He leans back, just a little, and changes the angle, keening at the feel of it as Aziraphale fucks up into him. He stretches his wings out and flaps them in time with Aziraphale’s thrusts, pushing himself down even harder, even faster.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says on a breathy gasp, the low voice he slips into while he chases his own pleasure. Crowley loves that voice, loves what it does to him. Needs it, needs to hear it. “You’re so lovely, so good to me, you take my cock so well, don’t you, my darling?”

“Angel — _mnph_ — I’m close, I can’t—“

“Let go, darling, you can let go,” Aziraphale cuts him off, eyes steely and looking in his. Crowley always does what Aziraphale wants, and this is no exception.

With one last beat of his wings he pushes himself down, meeting Aziraphale’s thrust and he cries out. Come spills from his cock in spurts and thin lines, striping Aziraphale’s waistcoat. Crowley starts to apologize, but Aziraphale is pulling him close again, chest to chest, holding him possessively, like he never wants to let go.

Aziraphale kisses his neck, his cheek, his chin, anywhere he can reach, murmuring I-love-you’s into his skin as he thrusts up into him with abandon.

Crowley goes boneless, lets his arms drape over Aziraphale’s shoulders, trusts Aziraphale to hold him steady as he races to catch up. Crowley has never felt more spent or more fucked in his entire long life. It’s a good feeling, letting go, letting Aziraphale take his pleasure in him. It isn’t long until Aziraphale’s hips stutter, spilling inside of him as Crowley’s name falls from his lips. 

Aziraphale’s wings manifest from the ether, wrapping around the both of them, a cocoon of warmth and belonging as they trade languid kisses in the afterglow; rubbing their noses together and trading soft endearments as the shadows creep across the floor.

Aziraphale peppers him with kisses and helps him off his lap, picking him up and laying him down on the bed. Aziraphale pulls the duvet up over him, pressing a kiss into his hair before snapping his fingers. The mess disappears, along with Aziraphale’s clothes. If Crowley knows him, they’re hanging in the wardrobe, already pressed and ready for the next day. Fussy angel.

Aziraphale pulls back the duvet, sinks down into the bed next to him. Crowley barely gives Aziraphale time to get settled before he’s climbing into his arms, nuzzling his face into Aziraphale’s neck and breathing in the smell of him. Bookdust and sex should not mingle on him as well as they do, but it’s quickly becoming one of Crowley’s favorite smells.

There’s a hand carding through his hair and a chuckle on the angel’s lips and all Crowley can think of is how much he wants to curl up here for the rest of his days. Spend them cuddling with Aziraphale; let the world end they can just stay here like this.

He snakes his arms around Aziraphale, eventually wiggling his way on top of him. Crowley feels buoyant and weightless in the afterglow, content to lie here and hear Aziraphale’s heartbeat. Despite himself, he starts to doze off.

* * *

They lie there, entwined with each other. Aziraphale pulls Crowley even closer, wrapping his wings around his darling. Crowley’s head is pillowed on his chest, his breathing is soft and steady. Aziraphale thinks he might be drifting to sleep, when suddenly Crowley is giggling.

“What is it, darling?” Aziraphale asks as he runs a hand through Crowley’s hair. 

“So much for lunch,” Crowley says as he laughs, vaguely gesturing in the direction of the window where the sun is dipping below the horizon.

“Ah, yes, what a pity. Shame we weren’t doing anything more interesting than lunch,” Aziraphale says as he strokes a hand up and down Crowley’s spine, feeling the demon sink into his touch. He goes nearly boneless in the afterglow. Something about the serpentine instincts that Aziraphale doesn’t quite understand but loves with all of his heart.

Crowley just laughs, “Yeah, real shame that. We could still make a late supper if we go now.”

“No, I think I’m quite content where I am. Besides, there’s a sleeping snake on top of me and I’m fairly sure that means I’m not allowed to leave.”

Crowley tilts his head up, props his chin on his hand and just stares at him. He looks so utterly besotted that it makes Aziraphale’s heart crack. This wealth of love that he can feel from Crowley, how he had ever managed to ignore it for so long, he’ll never know. “What?”

“Nothing,” Crowley says, a red blush rising in his face. It’s endearing and maddening and makes Aziraphale want to kiss him until neither of them can breathe anymore (not that they need to anyway). “Just want to look at you, that’s all.” 

Aziraphale, as an angel, is meant to love all of Her creations. But the amount of love he feels for Crowley is often both overwhelming and intoxicating. It’s so much and it suffuses the air around them, drifts along with the dust particles in the fading orange twilight. It seeps into the books downstairs, into the sheets on his bed, gets stirred into every cup of cocoa, and rings in the air over every conversation. After six thousand years, Aziraphale doesn’t want to be without it for even a moment.

“Move in with me?”

The words fall out of Aziraphale’s mouth unbidden. He couldn’t have stopped them if he’d tried. Crowley’s eyes go wide and his breath catches. Aziraphale worries, if only for a moment, that he’s moved too fast. Six thousand years is a long time compared to a few short months, especially for immortal beings. He can’t help it, they’ve wasted so much time and he doesn’t want to waste any more. But he’ll go at the speed Crowley needs; Heav-Hell- _Somewhere_ knows that Crowley has gone at his for so long.

He opens his mouth to take it back, to apologize, to assure Crowley it’s not necessary, but just as he does the demon’s face breaks out into the biggest and dopiest grin that Aziraphale has ever seen.

“Move in with you?” Crowley asks, quirking an eyebrow, a sparkle in his yellow eyes. “Here, in the bookshop?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale can feel the heat rising in his face, coloring his cheeks and betraying his nervousness under that scrutinizing gaze.

“Plants wouldn’t be too much for you? Can’t have you blessing them, never stay green that way.” Crowley says, resting his chin on his hand, sighing deeply.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll manage. Lots of places with good sunlight.” Aziraphale imagines Crowley watering the plants in the bay windows of the kitchen, on a clear blue day with the sunlight streaming in. The thought makes his heart flutter. “You’d have to keep the noise down though, if I’m reading. The shouting and the bebop.”

“Ah, bet I can manage. Sure you can handle a demon encroaching on your territory?” Crowley asks, pressing a kiss into the soft hair of Aziraphale’s chest, tangling their fingers together languidly. “Might be a bit too tempting, angel, might need _lots_ of thwarting.”

Aziraphale chuckles and runs a finger along a long indigo primary. “Well, if I were thwarting you, I don’t think anyone could object to that.” He leans forward and softly kisses Crowley’s forehead, relishing Crowley’s hum of contentment.

“Could do with that, I think. Need a good thwarting once in a while, me.” He’s slurring a bit, wrung out and worn down from the day.

“Are you going to sleep, dear?” Aziraphale asks quietly, smoothing Crowley’s hair back from his face, tucking it behind his ear and smiling at him softly.

“Might do, bit exhausted,” Crowley says around a yawn as he squeezes Aziraphale just a bit tighter. Sure enough, in moments, he’s drifted off to sleep.

Aziraphale kisses the top of his head, wraps him in dove-white wings. A shelter from the storm. He watches the violet shadows cross the floor, here in his bed — no, _their_ bed — with the love of his life in his arms.

The bookshop has always been where he’s lived. But now, knowing that Crowley will stay; knowing that he’ll get mornings and wine drunk evenings and arguments over the dishes and everything that comes with the trappings of a life together. For the first time since he first came here — since he first opened this shop and set up a residence — it feels like _home_.

* * *

1 \- And, as it turned out, he had. One in particular about mountaintops and blue eyes they had slow danced to one night when the power had gone out. Surrounded by candles, holding each other close. Crowley will never admit he’d been crying; Aziraphale will never tell him that he saw. They both know, either way.

2 \- If Crowley had grown his hair back out specifically because of how nice it feels when Aziraphale plays with it is nobody’s business but his own.

3 \- When Crowley had first seen it he’d been shocked. It wasn’t like Aziraphale to tear pages out of books. Aziraphale had just laughed and said this one was special, didn’t deserve to be hidden.

4 \- These are in the languages, as follows, of French, Old English, Finnish, and Akkadian. Two of which are long dead, two of which are alive and well.

5 \- Proto-Indo-European (PIE) is, of course, one of the oldest known human languages. A lot of the structure remains lost to time. Roughly translated this is “Sing-feather, the place where my heart has always lived.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This collaboration was a product of the Do It With Style Good Omens Minibang, which is almost winding down to last postings. We'll be doing more events as time goes on, including prompt based events and more bangs as well! You can join us in the [Do It With Style Discord Server](https://discord.gg/amnVAnb), it's open to everyone even those who don't want to participate in events, and it's a fun little community with lots of great people <3


End file.
